Piano Hands Weren't Made for War
by Amber Lehcar
Summary: Soul Evans had given up his old baby grand back home in the States for the Devil's piano on the front lines of World War II. War is hell, but a certain British angel may make it a bit more bearable for him. AU Warnings: character death, characters suffering from PTSD, violence
1. First Contact

Alrighty, I've been anxious to post this for months now! Welcome to Amber's first attempt at Resonance Bang! I'm definitely participating if the fandom does this again next year. Big thanks to my Resbang partner for this fic, tilliquoi, and her marvelous artwork!

Now before we get into the fic, I have a few notes for this chapter to help with understanding:

_Soul is a corporal serving in the Eighth Air Force_

_**Devil's piano**__: Machine gun._

_6-6-1944: D-Day_

* * *

><p>"<em>To be prepared for war is one of the most effective means of preserving peace." ~ George Washington<em>

_May 14, 1944_

He swiped a hand over the remains of his white mop of hair. Staring into the open trunk before him, he felt a lump form in his throat. This had been his choice to begin with. With how famous the Evans family was, he could have easily avoided the draft and spent his time plinking out short melodies for the drunks back home in Connecticut. He thought back to Wes who had begged him not to go. It was his duty. How could he go on living in the lap of luxury as a pianist while the rest of the men went off to lay down their lives to stop the bullies of this world? His brother could not understand. It was fine.

Soul would _make_ him understand. His initial determination flared again, dissolving any anxiety he once held about his new assignment.

The young soldier eyed the record peeking out from underneath his new aviation uniforms: some sort of swing music his brother had thought would be good as a parting gift. He considered taking it to England with him even if he knew he would not listen to it. Its only purpose was to remind him of home. He reached hesitantly towards it as one of his comrades bounded over to him. Hastily shuffling his uniforms to cover the record, he looked up at the man. Blake Barrett stood next to his seat clad in a wife beater that best showed off his newly acquired star tattoo.

"Heard the good news! Congratulations are in order!" his friend beamed, slapping a hand on his back. "Can I buy you a drink tonight?"

"'Not really looking forward to being hungover while flying over the Atlantic," Soul chuckled, closing the trunk.

"C'mon! One drink never killed anyone! Besides, we can find you a dame while we're out having a good time!" Blake elbowed him in the shoulder, winking suggestively.

"No point in finding a girl if I'm leaving the very next morning."

"Isn't that the perfect time to find a girl?" The loud soldier was given a blank look in response. "Yeah yeah, I know how you are, I get it. Still though, one drink on me. C'mon, buddy! I don't know when I'll see you again!"

He sighed in defeat and rose from his chair. "Fine, you win. But only one drink, you understand?"

…

_May 15, 1944_

He would never fly after a night of drinking ever again, nor would he let Blake ever take him out for 'just one drink' ever again. His head hurt, but since departing from base, the butterflies in his stomach had bothered him far more. Soul had never left the country before then. Going to England had been a dream of Wes' for the longest time. A dream that his younger brother was now living out in his stead. Soul could not help but feel a bit guilty. He would have to bring a memento for his brother upon his return.

After a sleepless trip across the Atlantic, he and the other recruits grabbed their bags and stepped onto foreign soil. Sopping wet foreign soil. Soul stared up into the dark sky as the rain washed over him. He had heard it often rained in London, but he had not been expecting it to so soon upon his arrival. The other men in his company started wolf-whistling, making comments about "not knowing dames would be on the base". Brought back to Earth, he looked to see what they were talking about and met a pair of green eyes.

They belonged to a beautiful young woman who walked across the landing strip. An umbrella in her hand shielded her straw-colored updo from the rain. She paid the other men no mind, instead remaining fixated on Soul until finally following a man with a clipboard and disappearing out of view. He had never been the kind of man to believe too readily in destiny, but somehow he knew that it had much more in store for them than just a chance meeting.

As they made their way toward their new barracks, the men continued to talk about the woman they had seen. She had been dressed in a woman's uniform. Could she be a soldier? A few of the men scoffed at the idea. After all, it was not a woman's place to be on the battlefront, Although he disagreed with what they said, Soul did not voice his opinion. It would only fall on deaf ears anyway - this his was sure of.

…

He sighed and slumped into one of the bar stools at a nearby pub, newly-exchanged pounds clinking in his pocket. Flying an ocean away to their new home-away-from-home had not deterred their commanding officer from putting them through their usual, rigorous training. Soul was soaked to the bone and exhausted. He began reaching into his pocket for some money before he was interrupted.

"Mind if I take this seat?" a voice like drizzled honey and English countryside asked him. He looked up and found himself staring back into familiar eyes. "You're the soldier from this morning, correct? If it's no trouble, may I sit next to you?" All he could do was nod and watch as she gracefully took her seat. As the bartender made his way towards them, she said, "I'll have whatever he is having, plus the bill."

"S'not very often someone buys me a drink," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"You… intrigued me earlier," she replied. Her face was set with a serious expression, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked him over, measuring him up. She must have found him acceptable for a moment later she waved her hand carelessly and said, "Please, order whatever you'd like."

"Eh, just water for now, thanks." He waited for the bartender to return with two waters and leave them before continuing his conversation with the woman. "I intrigued you, huh?"

She carefully moved a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "Your comrades don't seem to know how to act like gentlemen in the presence of a woman." She paused, tossing a glance his way. "_You_, however, do."

"Well it isn't every day that they meet a pretty dame." She raised an eyebrow at him. "I mean, woman," he corrected.

"Thank you for the compliment." She took a small sip of water before turning back to him. "I don't believe I've introduced myself. Agent Mary Albarn." She extended a hand to him, trying to look as terribly professional as possible.

Taking it, he replied, "Corporal Soul Evans, US Army Air Force."

"A curious pilot with an even more curious name..." She returned to her glass. "You must be here for Overlord."

"You know about the operation?"

"Perhaps more than you do." Mary watched him out of the corner of her eyes. "Sorry to change the subject, but why didn't you join in with your men? When they were talking about me."

He looked at her in confusion a moment before answering, "Because everyone plays an important role in this war. Isn't just a man's war. You have just as much right as anyone to be here."

For the first time since he had met her, she smiled at him. "I'm glad you feel that way." She slid a couple of pounds toward him and pushed herself away from the bar. "Feel free to have whatever you'd like. Good luck in Overlord. I hope… to speak with you again soon, Corporal."

He nodded at her. "Likewise."

Flashing him a lackluster smile, Mary minced her way to the door. Soul kept his focus on the heels of her shoes as he watched her leave. Once the bar door shut behind her, he returned to the coins before him. He smirked. Enlisting may have been the greatest decision he had ever made.

…

_June 6, 1944_

Throughout the entire flight, Soul hoped his copilot could not see his hands trembling. He had been trained for this operation, he had been certain he was ready. But as the shores of Normandy grew ever closer, he was beginning to doubt himself. The plan itself was simple: lob a few bombs into enemy territory, help the land troops move in, and take back a good portion of France. But war tended to complicate things.

Even things as simple as a beautiful British woman.

Having not seen her since the night at the pub, he had not been able to shake Mary's parting words from his thoughts. While he was definitely interested in seeing her again, was she truly interested as well? She had not gone out of her way to see him since that night. He shook his head, clearing Mary from his thoughts. He had a mission to fly, and he knew it would only go well if she was the furthest thing from his mind.

"Hangin' in there, Mac?" his copilot asked, face straight and focused on the skies ahead.

While still better than the day before, the clouds were still ominously dark, only making Soul's anxiety about the operation worse. His only comfort was that he was not stuck in the rough seas below. There was a reason he was an airman and not a seaman. "Everything's jake," he replied.

"Baloney!" It was the first time his copilot had turned to him since take-off. "I seen your hands shakin' for a while now."

Soul shook his head slightly, chuckling. "Thought I was hiding it pretty well."

The other man patted his arm a moment. "Ain't no reason to be nervous. We'll be in and gone before them crouts know what hit 'em."

Willing his hands to stop shaking, Soul sighed and focused on the shore slowly making its way beneath them. His thoughts drifted back to Mary once more. Agent Mary Albarn. He had to wonder if she was a secret agent or something. What if she was in Normandy, helping the French Resistance?

The first bomb was released.

Through the low cloud cover, the pilot was able to make out the silhouettes of the other bombers as the blasts of the bombs illuminated the night. He wondered how many they had dropped on the unsuspecting shoreline since midnight hit. Behind them, the British and American navies came ever closer to the shore, firing off their own rounds. Was it already that far into the operation? It all seemed to happen so fast for him. It was not long before the bombers were finished and now dropping parachuters instead of bombs. He watched them sail down towards the ground, safe in the air for a moment before hitting the dirt and coming face-to-face with the enemy.

It hit him all at once that the enemy had been down there the entire time. That he had dropped bombs on people, real live people. Back home in the States, he had been trained to take down "the enemy". There were hardly any pictures, any proof that the enemy were humans. To him, they were nothing more than words on a page. Just a concept, not real. He felt sick suddenly. He should not have been there. He destroyed people! People with families, friends, dreams! No amount of preparation could have prepared him for his sudden realization.

Enlisting was most definitely not the greatest decision he had ever made.

His copilot noticed his hands trembling even more than before. "Stay strong, Mac. If this is your first flight out here, it'll only get worse for ya."


	2. Battle Cry

A few notes to help understand some things in this chapter:

_Mary serves with the SOE, the Special Operations Executive, that worked on many secret mission throughout WWII. Soul correctly guesses that Mary is in Normandy in chapter 1. The SOE worked together with the French resistance to help with the success of D-Day. _

_**Dear John letter**__: a letter from a wife or sweetheart at home telling someone serving overseas that she was getting a divorce or breaking off the relationship_

_12-16-1944: Battle of the Bulge_

"_Auld Lang Syne": traditional New Year's song_

* * *

><p>"<em>In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons." ~ Herodotus<em>

_July 22, 1944_

He could have gone without the rain in London that evening. In the doorway of the pub, Soul tried to swipe the water out of his hair, off his rain coat, anything to keep the bar stools dry. He plopped down on a stool and tried to take some pounds out of his pockets. His hands were still trembling.

The familiar sound of heels clicking behind him caught his attention. He turned to find Mary, her hair once again pulled up in a perfect bun. Everything was as the night they had first met. "Glad to see you again," she said to him with a genuine smile. "I've heard wonderful things about the operation."

"Your mission go well, too?"

She nodded. "Yes. I can't say more, but it was a definite success." His hands caught her gaze. "You're shaking."

Staring down at his hands, he rubbed the back of one with the thumb of the other. "Yeah… Haven't stopped since D-Day. Is that normal?"

Gently placing a hand on his, she replied, "Yes. My first mission with the SOE had me shaking for the longest time. It's nothing to be ashamed of, really. I would be concerned if you came back happier than you had left." His face remained grave. She retracted her hand from him, slowly laying both of her hands in her lap. "I'm… sorry. I'm afraid I've never been very good at jokes."

The two sat in silence for a moment. When he finally chose to speak, Soul could not believe that the shaky voice coming from him was his own. "I don't think I was cut out for this…" He stared at her out of the corner of his eye. "I knew what I was getting myself into, but… I _killed _people, Mary. Actual humans beings, not just some animals."

She sighed wearily. "Your hands weren't meant for killing. But it is a necessity of war. We all do things we aren't proud of, things we'd rather forget. But we do them, because we hope it will bring us closer to peace. You understand me, Evans?" Reluctantly, he nodded. "Good. So, what would you be doing if you were not here? What were those hands of yours really made for?"

It took him some time to figure out the best answer to her question before answering, "Distracting." Her head tilted to the side, her expression asking him to elaborate. "If I wasn't here, I'd be playing piano back in Connecticut. Letting people get lost in the music, helping them forget their troubles. Being a distraction. But I figured actually ending people's troubles would be better than just helping them forget them."

She nodded in understanding. "You said… you said you live in Connecticut?"

"Yeah, New Haven, why?"

Reaching past him for a napkin on the counter, she asked the bartender for a pen. Quickly, she scribbled out an address, tearing the napkin in half. "Here, write your address down," she explained, pushing the blank piece and pen toward him. "That way we can write to each other, once we're back where we belong. We can be penpals. And you can tell me all about your concerts." Mary smiled warmly at him, sliding her address facedown over to him.

Soul returned the smile, hands finally steady as he picked up the pen to write.

…

_November 17, 1944_

As summer came to an end and autumn slowly turned into winter, Soul and Mary kept to their routine. They would each go away on their own missions, sometimes not seeing each other for days on end. But eventually they would find each other, be it on the base or the pub. Only particularly difficult days found them in the pub. Soul observed that these meetings at the pub consisted solely of her comforting him, never the other way around. He did not understand how the woman managed to keep herself so together all the time. Surely her missions were taxing on her as well?

But she never let on if they were. Mary had only a few different faces: her standard no-nonsense face, her sparkling smile, or her empathetic gaze. He also noted how she had gotten good at tracking him. No matter where he hid in town, she somehow managed to find him.

That particular day, she found him chuckling over a letter in hand in the mess hall after weeks of being away on her own mission. A smile tugged at Mary's lips. "You look like a child at Christmas." He jolted at her words, shuffling the paper in his hands so the writing was obscured from her. "A sweetheart from back home?"

Soul laughed. "No, my friend. We met in Savannah when I enlisted. He was about ready to enlist, really nervous. Finally followed me to Europe I guess." He waved the letter around. "I'm not like Ford who gets Dear John letters from his girl."

"So you don't have a girl waiting for you?"

He leaned back in his seat, scratching the back of his head. "Well… Not really. Broke it off before I enlisted."

"You didn't want to worry her." She took a seat next to him.

Nodding, he asked, "What about you? Got a man here?"

Mary laughed through her nose. "No, no. I've never exactly been the romantic type - not that any men found me attractive anyway. Many feel inferior to a woman who could most likely beat them in an armwrestling match." They both laughed at her words. Catching her breath, her gaze lowered to the floor. "Would you… go find her again? Once the war is over?"

He leaned on his knees and sighed. "Probably not. War's s'posed to change you, you know? I may not be the man she wants anymore when this is all said and done."

She chanced a glance his way before replying, "I'm sure you will be the man some lucky woman wants when you return."

Soul's ears began to burn at her words. He was still not used to receiving compliments from the woman. Muttering a "thanks" to her, he stuffed the letter in his pocket to reread later.

...

_December 16, 1944_

While in the deepest sleep he had had since arriving in Europe, Blake rolled over on his cot, burying himself deeper into his blankets. Winter in the Ardennes forests was far colder than he had anticipated, but it was nothing he could not handle. He was dreaming about the day he and Soul had met in Savannah, Georgia, before he had even enlisted, until the scream of an artillery shell was heard. He jolted up in bed, throwing the blankets off of him.

"The Germans are attacking! Hurry!" a soldier shouted as he ran through the barracks, waking all the men. Blake scrambled to find his uniform and threw it on, heading for the weaponry.

Trusty Enfield in hand, he made his way through the trees until he was stopped in his tracks. A whole line of German tanks reached the edge of the forest, mowing down trees and lobbing shells into the fray. A few foot soldiers shot at him, making him duck for cover behind a fallen log. Taking a deep breath, he peeked out of his hiding spot and shot blindly. They were all misses. Reloading his rifle, he quickly lifted his gaze to search for his comrades. Many fell to the freezing ground.

Once again, Blake left the safety of the tree to fire. The enemy was advancing quickly. He opened fire, injuring a couple of German soldiers and killing one instantly. As he turned to reload once more, he felt a sudden sharp sensation in his chest.

He had been shot.

The force of the shot pushed him to his knees. One hand shakily holding his rifle, he brushed the bloody exit wound with his free hand. He began to feel light-headed, falling over face-first into the snow. Soldiers raced by him as he watched helplessly from the ground. The world around him began to blur. The wound in his chest throbbed with every strained breath as blood stained the pure white snow. While the battle raged around him, he was left there to die. The shots and cries around him faded away. He no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open. "Sorry, buddy…" Blake whispered.

And the world went dark and silent.

...

_December 31, 1944_

The city echoed with a chorus of voices, "Auld Lang Syne" filling the crisp winter air. Those not singing along shared their resolutions, their hopes, their dreams for the new year with each other.

Mary pushed her way through a crowd of soldiers, trying to find where Soul had gone. Just the day before, he had asked to spend New Year's with her, to which she had blushed and agreed immediately - men who asked to spend any day with her were few and far between.

There were only a few minutes till midnight, and she had still had no luck in finding the pilot. His comrades would have been a great help to her if they were not so busy enjoying the festivities. Feeling slightly dejected, she checked the last place she could think to find him: the barracks.

"Evans? Are you here?" her voice echoed in the empty barracks as she weaved through bunks before finally spotting his familiar white hair. "I've been looking all over for you, Evans. Don't you know it's rude to leave a woman... waiting…" She trailed off as she realized he was sitting with his face in his hands. A few stray pieces of paper sat next to him on the mattress. Mary eyed him carefully, as if she were in the presence of a wild animal that might strike should she make a wrong move, and slowly reached for the letter. Her hands shook as she brought the words closer to read. Her heart sunk, and she brought a hand to her mouth. Tears stung her eyes, and for the first time, she heard Soul sob quietly on his bunk. Her gaze returned to the soldier.

"He's dead… my best friend…" he croaked, snatching the letter from her hands. "I didn't even get to say goodbye. He told me he was in Europe, but I never wrote back, or went to see him…" He crumpled the paper in his hands, beating his forehead with his fists.

Mary sat down next to him, carefully taking his hands in her own. "Soul… You couldn't-"

He ripped them away from her. "Don't tell me there was nothing I could do! Don't you think I know that?! I know I couldn't have done anything and that it isn't my fault, but it doesn't make the pain any less real!"

Staring into her lap, she whispered an apology. Just then, the clock struck midnight, Big Ben's chiming joining another verse of "Auld Lang Syne". "Happy New Year…" she murmured, a single tear falling down her cheek as she got up to leave. A hand on her wrist stopped her.

"Don't go…" he pleaded, staring at the floor. "Don't leave me alone… I'm sorry…"

She turned to him and watched tears stream down his face. It was the first time she had ever seen a man cry out of despair. Returning to her seat, she carefully wrapped her arms around his frame. She ran her hand through his short, snowy hair, shushing as he sobbed. "It's okay to cry," she assured him. "No one would blame you…"

"We never should've come here," he cried, trembling in her arms. "Blake and I, we never should've come! I'd still be home if it wasn't for those damn Japs! I wouldn't have enlisted and encouraged Blake! And he wouldn't have _died_!"

Mary's hand stopped stroking his hair, her body frozen. With his face buried in the crook of her neck, he could not see her brows furrow in a combination of frustration and pity. She leaned to rest her chin on his head and continued to to comfort him, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from speaking.


	3. Paradise Lost

"_In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies." ~ Winston Churchill_

_April 13, 1945_

They had fallen out of their routine after New Year's. Soul had asked for a little more space since then as he mourned Blake's death. Mary had been happy to oblige. He never understood why, but the few times they did meet like old times, she seemed… nervous. Uncomfortable. Like something important needed to be shared between them, but neither of them would initiate conversation. There were times they would meet for some time and never say a word to the other.

For him, it was becoming more difficult for him to deny he felt something for the woman. He missed her far more than he cared to admit when she was not on the base. And when they did have their usual meetings, he could feel his heart pounding as soon as their eyes met. Part of him hoped she felt the same way he felt about her. But part of him also knew he would have to leave her behind in London. And with every little victory they won over the Axis, he was reminded that he would have to go home without her eventually.

He started to look forward to the precious time they still had together, as did she. Mary always found her eyes searching for him, for the signature slouch, those fiery eyes. When she was off duty, she would roam the base, looking for signs of him. And while she knew that growing attached to him would cause more trouble than good, she almost felt as if she had found her soulmate, a term that had been ruined for her once upon a time. But this was different. He was different. She could not help but find her thoughts drifting to him, wondering if there were times his thoughts lingered on her as well.

Soon, Mary found herself patrolling the barracks once more, watching the other men filing out. "Looking for Evans?" Rung asked her, to which she nodded, confused how he knew. "He's at his bunk. We'll leave you two alone for a while." He punctuated his sentence with a wink and left with the others before she could stop him - not that she minded them being left alone. After all, she had something very important to say, and she only wanted him to hear it…

Just as Rung had said, Soul sat at his bunk, reading over a report for an upcoming mission. She recalled him discussing the Luftwaffe deciding to ram their planes directly into Allied forces as a last ditch effort. He looked up at her before she could even get close to him, a smile on his face. "Was afraid I'd miss you before I head off to Germany," he said, laying the report down and getting up to walk towards her. He watched her eyes drift to the floor solemnly. Ducking his head down into her line of sight, he asked, "Is everything okay?"

Slowly, she removed her coat and took a seat next to him before explaining, "I... have a very dangerous sabotage mission, starting tomorrow. I… might not make it back…" She refused to make eye contact with him, awkwardly holding her arm as she maintained her gaze to the floor.

"Why tell me all this, Mary?"

"Maka."

Both stood silent for a moment, Soul giving her a look that asked for elaboration. "It's… my real name… my mother gave it to me."

He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled nervously. "Might not be an Englishman, but that doesn't sound too English to me."

"It isn't. My mother is Japanese."

Her words hung over them, his brain not quite managing to catch up to what she was saying. As his mind slowly processed the implications, he involuntarily staggered backwards, getting on his feet. Japanese? Her? He thought back to Pearl Harbor, the attack that had dragged him and his entire country into the war. He had trusted her. She was one of them - one of the people who had attacked them.

"I knew I'd be working alongside American soldiers, and I did not want to give anyone a reason to distrust me…"

He lunged forward slightly, hands balled into raised fists. "So you falsified your documents? Came up with a new name and made yourself fully British just to be best friends with me?"

"I did it so I could fight alongside you!" she shouted at him as she stood her ground. "You know how people think of women! This was the only way I was going to be able to fight like a man and be respected and trusted by men!"

"Any bit of trust I had for you is gone!" He swung an arm at her and watched her flinch. His jaw clenched as he tried to tell himself that he did not care about the hurt in her eyes. "You lied to me… You know how I feel about the Japanese and you lied to me! How am I supposed to trust you after all that's happened?"

"Because I didn't bomb Pearl Harbor," she answered firmly. "Because I've been fighting the same fight you have. I've been by your side this entire time. Because the only reason I gave you to distrust me was telling you my real name." She draped her coat over her arm and got up from her seat. "I have to go now. I have a mission to prepare for. If I don't see you when I return…I'll be sure to write you." Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she angled away from him. "I hope… I hope you'll return my letters..."

"Don't bother! I'll have forgotten all about you!" Soul turned away from her, angrily packing away his trunk. She sniffled only once, trying her best to keep her composure, and left him alone in the barracks. He refused to turn around or even glance over his shoulder. There was no time to worry about some foreign girl's feelings. He had his own mission to prepare for.

A small scrap of paper peeked out of the clothing he had shoved into the trunk; it was half a napkin with Mary's, no, Maka's address on it. Carefully, he removed it from its confines. He only hesitated a moment before ripping it to shreds.

He no longer needed it.

...

_April 16, 1945_

Of all the other flights he had flown since arriving in Europe, Soul could only compare his fight against the Luftwaffe to D-Day. It was because of her. Because Mary, or rather "Maka", would not leave his mind alone. Waking or sleeping, she would run rampant through his mind. He had dreamed of her, back turned and crying. To say he was angry was an understatement; he could not eat, he could not sleep, and it infuriated him to care so much for someone who was Japanese. He would never forgive her for lying to him.

And so he took his anger out on the German planes before him. Gone were his reservations about harming other human beings. They had shot at him first. It was only fair. As an enemy plane attempted to ram into him, he maneuvered just in time to dodge. Turning around, he opened fire. The plane burst aflame and plummeted to the ground. Soul could not help but smirk.

Thanks to her, it was a bit easier for him to distinguish between friend and foe now. He had gone back to his conditioning, the dehumanization of the Crouts. Shooting at any and all enemy units was as easy as pressing a button, flipping a switch.

Another enemy plane flew into his line of sight. He steadied his aim, ready to take the shot. She chose the wrong time to appear, the pilot of the plane on a collision course with him. It only took a moment of hesitation for everything to go wrong. He narrowly missed colliding with the plane, but immediately after righting his own, another enemy fired upon him. His engine caught fire, throwing him off course as he began to plummet to the ground. As he fought a losing battle to control his plane, Soul couldn't help but think of her more. This was it. He would never come back from this. He was never going to see her again, never get to apologize.

Mary, no, Maka had been right. She had not attacked his people; instead she had fought to help his men. And now she would come home, and he would not be there to see her return. His hands trembled again, just as they had at D-Day. Reaching for the ejection pull was not an option as he sat, defeated.

And the plane nose-dived into the ground. Metal shards flew all around, and the brush caught fire. And the fighting continued up above. No one came for him.

...

_April 18, 1945_

Wincing from both sunlight and pain, Soul stared up at the white ceiling above him. He moved to rub the sleep from his eyes, only to discover an IV drip connected to his arm. The ache in his chest became more apparent to him as he finally awoke, his body burning with a raging fire. He inspected his chest and discovered a long line of gauze that ran from shoulder to hip, most likely protecting new stitches. Resting his head back on the pillow, he sighed. How had he even managed to survive?

The clicking of heels caught his attention and he snapped his head towards the door to his room. A blonde nurse with a patch over her eye entered, clipboard in hand. "Ah, you're awake again! Maybe we'll finally talk this time!" Confusion swam in his brain, but before he could question it, the nurse sat down and continued, "My name is Marie. Can you tell me your name?"

It was not until he opened his mouth that he realized how dry it was. "Soul… Evans," he managed to get out.

"Alright, Soul, what rank are you?"

"Corporal." He watched her jot down a few notes on the clipboard. "Maka…"

"What's that?"

"Where's Maka?" he choked out. "Back yet?"

Marie's lips set in a grim line. "I'm afraid I don't know any Maka."

"Here, on the base! I saw her!" He tried to sit up in bed, fighting against the fire in his chest telling him to stay still.

The nurse rushed to his side, gently pressing against his shoulders to get him to lay back down. "You'll reopen the wound if you move too much, so please lay down and rest!"

Tears stung his eyes, but be it from the pain or from his distress, he did not know. "I have to find her! I said terrible things -!" A sudden spike of pain forced him back on his elbows.

"Please, just rest!" Marie pleaded with him. Her eyes widened as a light bulb lit in her mind. "I've got it! Why don't you tell me about Maka? Tell me everything you know about her. I could try to find her for you! I know you want to find her and apologize, but that just isn't possible right now. Describe her to me, and I'll go find her."

Soul took a moment to check his bandages again. Small splotches of red dotted the line of white along his chest. He sighed and eased down onto the bed again. As stubborn and determined as he was, he knew he was in no shape to be out looking for her. He looked over at the nurse to find her staring intently at him, her unobscured eye encouraging him to describe his mystery girl. He couldn't help but smile as he thought of Maka. "Well, for starters, she's incredible…"


	4. Reconstruction Blues

Just a few notes to help understand some things in this chapter:

_5-8-1945: Victory in Europe Day_

_Super Deluxe: The Ford Super Deluxe was one of the last models Ford made before focusing on military vehicles._

* * *

><p>"<em>In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield." ~ Douglas MacArthur<em>

_May 8, 1945_

Soul stared out the window to the city below as he adjusted his tie. All of London had poured into the streets at the news that the war in Europe was finally over. The sound of his door opening caught his attention. His favorite nurse, Marie, stood in the doorway, happily holding up some papers.

"Well, it's official! You are all set for discharge!" She bounced over to him by the window to hand them over. She joined him by the window, her eyes following his down to the crowd and she asked, "Do you think she's down there?"

"I sure hope so…"

"You're in love with her, aren't you?" She eyed him slyly as he blushed. "I know the look, and you made that very look through all those stories of her. Go find her. She sounds like a lovely woman."

He smiled, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "You don't know the half of it." After giving Marie an awkward side hug she insisted on, Soul finally left the hospital.

The streets of London seemed even more packed as he made his way through the crowd. Hugs and tears of joy were a common sight, but as he pushed through the people towards his destination, the sheer size of the joyous crowd was more terrifying and confining than welcoming. He found it hard to breathe, feeling crushed by the bodies around him. He had to get to the pub, away from the people, to the one place she had always been able to find him. He just had to see her.

Unfortunately, their pub was just as crowded as the rest of the city. Soul shoved his way to the bar, scanning the room for Maka's blonde hair. She just had to be home in London, had to be out celebrating the end of the war. She just had to be okay. If she was not… he was afraid he would never be able to forgive himself.

And then he saw her. She sat at the bar, back facing him as she chatted with another young woman. Face lit up, he pushed through towards her, far more focused on Maka than on the patrons of the pub. Once he reached her, he grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. His smile wavered at the terrified look on the unfamiliar woman's face. She was not his Maka. Maka was gone.

"Do you… need something?" the woman's friend asked him, taking the blonde's hand protectively.

Soul backed away from them slowly. "No, sorry. Thought you were somebody else…"

...

_May 15, 1945_

His brother and parents expected to see the same young man that left for war return from it. He hated to disappoint them, but a different man returned. Still limping slightly, Soul was greeted at the terminal with the biggest bear hug his mother could muster, realizing at the last minute that he was still slightly injured. He sat in the back of the new Super Deluxe his parents had purchased in his absence, staring out the window while Wes and their father discussed news from the Pacific theater and their mother hummed happily to herself.

It was hard to accept it as his new reality. Quite frankly, it felt more like a dream. He might still be in the hospital in London, asleep until Marie came with lunch. Maybe he was in a coma and never had woken after being shot down. But the rough pat on his back from his brother was far too real to be a dream he'd made up.

"Hanging in there?" Wes asked him, mouth smiling but eyes worried.

"Just gotta… get used to being home," the younger brother replied. He returned to the view out the window, buildings and other vehicles whipping by. He felt Wes remove his hand from his back and settle back into his seat again. He sighed. He wished things could go back to the way they were. But with everything he had gone through, everything he had seen, "normal" was going to be hard to get back to.

…

_May 31, 1945_

Soul glared at the reflection of his scar in the mirror. Still an angry, ugly red, the scar looked more fierce than he would have hoped. His mother had made a comment at dinner the other night about him looking for a girl and settling down. He placed a hand over the scar's reflection. If it continued to look as terrifying as it did at that moment, settling down with someone was going to be difficult, if not out of the question. No woman would want to be with a man so broken, physically and mentally.

Wes walked into the bathroom and crossed his arms as he, too, stared at his brother's scar. "Every veteran has one, right? A fierce scar and impressive story to accompany it?"

The younger man glared at the older's reflection and reached for his shirt. As he buttoned it up, he replied bitterly, "Not much of a story. I was shot out of the sky by another pilot. The end."

"But you fell out of the sky and lived to tell about it. I think that is pretty impressive." Wes forced a smile, hoping it would be contagious. Soul remained focused on the infernal buttons that he kept mismatching. The older brother sighed. "I think the most impressive part of your story is that you came back alive at all. We were all afraid we would never see you again."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He pouted. "Don't be like that. We saw the numbers of the dead. As good a soldier as you might be, no one is invincible. I'm sure you of all people would know that."

Soul tensed as he remembered the devastating letter Blake's father, Sid, had sent him. Fist clenched, he spun to face Wes. "My best friend died, so yeah, I definitely know no one is invincible!"

Wes took a step back. "Sorry, I just… I'm worried about you, Little Brother. I'm not really sure how to talk like old times..."

"You weren't there, you don't know what I saw! What I went through! You keep talking to me like nothing happened, that I'm still your kid brother and you know everything in my life! Guess what? Things are far from normal, and they won't ever go back to normal! Quit trying to understand because you never will!" And with that, he stormed out, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

Wes moved to the sink and leaned on the countertop. Staring into the mirror, he whispered an apology.

…

_June 5, 1945_

"Have you seen any letters for me?" Soul asked, taking a seat at the dinner table with his family.

His mother looked up from the book she was reading. "Are you expecting a letter we should look out for?"

"Well… maybe? I'm… I'm not entirely sure." He clenched and unclenched his fists. "If you see any, just let me know."

"Who are you expecting a letter from, Little Brother?"

He stared at his wringing hands. Opening his mouth to answer, he suddenly recalled that the letter might be from a different name. Try as he may, he couldn't remember the name Maka had given him when they had first met. But for the life of him, he could not remember. To him, she would forever be Maka. "Name's Maka," he finally answered.

His parents shared a concerned look. "A woman from the States?" his father asked.

Shaking his head, he replied, "From England."

They shared another gaze. His mother got up from her seat and hugged him from behind. "If I see anything for you, I'll let you know."

Soul sat still, eyeing his family members and hoping to be able to pick out some sort of reasoning behind their actions. Wes seemed just as confused as his younger brother. His father's eyebrows were knitted together in worry. Something about the entire situation made him uneasy, but he decided that if his parents had something important to say, they would choose to say it when they felt the time was right. He laid a hand gently on his mother's arm, his own awkward way of returning the gesture.

…

_June 20, 1945_

For the first time since returning to Connecticut, Soul sat at his piano, staring blankly at the ivory keys. He spread his fingers out over them, the cool sensation of the instrument under his fingertips feeling oddly foreign to him. Had it really been that long? The last piece of music he'd played still sat on the music rack, presumably only having been moved to dust the instrument.

The comfort in knowing he could play these pieces by heart - it had given him confidence, pride in his musical abilities. But now, staring at the sheets before him, it was like a whole other language, a language he'd lost. What he wouldn't give to play like he could before. Willing his fingers to move, he played - it may have been shaky, slow, and missing a few flats in key areas, but still he played.

As he struggled through the piece, trying not to look at the music too often, Wes entered the piano room with an envelope in hand. "I almost thought I was hearing things when I heard that piano playing. No one's sat down at it since you left." He set the letter in front of the sheet music, the addressed side turned away from them. "Glad to see you finally coming back to us."

"What's this?" Soul asked, motioning to the the white packaging.

The older brother grinned. "I'll leave you to find out." With that, he left, closing the door behind him.

Soul eyed the envelope suspiciously. Hands trembling, he plucked it from the stand and turned it over to see who had written him.

"Maka Albarn".

His breath hitched in his throat. All this time he had hoped and prayed that she was alright, but a voice in the back of his head had convinced him that she was dead, never to return or write him. But here it was, proof that she was alive, presumably well. He tore open the package and pulled out the stationery, beautiful cursive flowing over the page:

"_Soul,_

_I'm sorry for not writing to you sooner. I was away for some time, and when I finally returned to London, I was afraid to visit you. When I finally gathered my courage, I found out you were already home. I lost my courage again before finally sending this._

_First of all, I hope your transition to civilian life has been easy for you. I myself have struggled quite a bit and hope that you have had an easier time of it. I was a bit disappointed when I discovered you had gone back to the States, but I am glad you are home and hopefully are well._

_Secondly, I'm writing to let you know that I am coming to the States soon, by your Independence Day it seems. I'll arrive at __New Haven Municipal Airport at about 7pm your time. I hope to see you there, if you'll see me. If not, I understand._

_Sincerely yours,_

Maka Albarn"

"If you'll see me"? God himself could not have stopped him. Immediately, he got up and propped open the piano bench, searching for a pencil and paper. The pencil was easy, paper not so much. He settled for making himself a note to pick her up at the airport on the sheet music set on his piano. She was far more important to him than the music anyway.


	5. Private Time

"_War could bond men like a magnet, but like a magnet it could repel them, too. The things they saw, the things they did. Sometimes they just wanted to forget." ~ __Mitch Albom_

_July 4, 1945_

Standing outside the airport, Maka raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she scanned the small crowd of people, hoping to spot Soul. Worry clutched her heart as she recalled their parting words. There was no guarantee he would come for her. But as she continued her search, she spotted his familiar pale hair, quite a bit longer than when last they had seen each other. She waved at him, catching his attention. It did not take long for him to reach her.

"Quite a different person in civilian clothes," she teased as he approached her. "I almost didn't recognize you." She reached out to touch a lock of his hair.

"I take it you like it?" He smirked at her, crossing his arms in amusement.

She retracted her hand and blushed furiously. "It's very different! I just wanted to make sure it was really you… I didn't want to be dreaming again…" Realizing what she had just said, her hands jumped to hide as much of her face as possible.

He simply laughed, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Been dreaming about me, huh?"

"Dreams were the only way to get through it all…"

…

"Here we are, home sweet home," Soul announced, opening the front door to his apartment for her. "Don't mind the mess, I moved not that long ago."

"You live here by yourself?"

He plopped down on the couch. "Yeah. After I got your letter, I thought it was time to leave the nest. I could really start my life since I knew you were alright."

Her lips parted slightly in surprise. "You were… were that worried about me?"

He looked up at her, seriousness etched into his face. "I waited for your letters every single day. I regretted everything I said to you when we last saw each other. I still do." He sat up and leaned his elbows on his knees. "I'm so sorry… If I could go back to that day, I would change everything. I would do everything to keep you there, safe with me. But all I can do is be here with you now. I won't lose you again."

Her eyes dropped to the floor at his words. "Look, Soul, despite what I feel, I have to go back…"

"What do you feel?" he asked her, sitting up straight to give her his full attention.

She bit her lip, fidgeting with her hands. "I… can't put it into words yet."

"Because?"

Maka sighed, holding her arms and making her way towards the window. "You really want to know?" she asked him, tossing a glance over her shoulder. He nodded, and she returned to the window before continuing. "When… When I was a little girl, my father had an affair with another woman. My mother was devastated… she was never the same after that. I guess… I'm scared…"

"You're scared that someone will cheat on you?"

"No. That I might hurt you." She turned back towards him, eyes watering. "I've seen what happens when someone you care deeply about hurts you. I never want to be responsible for that… So I won't say how I feel. There are too many 'what if's if I do…"

"Say it," he commanded, getting up from his seat. "I want you to say it."

Taking a step back, she shook her head violently. "Does it matter? I'm leaving for London in a few days, and we'll never see each other again…"

"Then stay."

His words rooted her to the spot. Blinking at him, she replied, "I beg your pardon?"

"Stay. With me." He walked closer to her, hand reaching out slightly to her. She did not move, neither encouraging to nor discouraging him from coming closer to her. He reached around her to pull the clip from her hair, letting it cascade down her back. Stepping back for just a moment, hand still hovering near her face, he gave her a once-over, whispering, "I wanted to see you with your hair down."

Wide green eyes searched his for a reason he was doing what he was doing. She reached up to take the clip from his hand and softly press his palm to her cheek. Avoiding eye contact with him, she leaned further into his touch. "Do you… like what you see?"

He tilted her face up to look at him as he came closer to her. "Yes," he breathed against her lips. He remained still, waiting for a sign to close the gap between them. To his surprise, she moved first, lightly pressing her lips to his.

His eyes remained open, scanning her face as she retracted from him finally. Her fingers fidgeted, her head bowed away from him. "Sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I just thought-"

He placed a hand at the nape of her neck, pulling her back to him, and met her lips once more. His eyes fluttered closed as he felt her hands take hold of the front of his shirt. He began to feel lightheaded. Hand still at her neck, he led her to the couch and pulled them both down. She broke away from him for a moment before he moved to help her settle on his lap and continue the kiss. She giggled against his lips as he growled at her knee digging into the side of his thigh.

If he had given her the chance, she would have offered him an apology, but his hands distracted her as they untucked her blouse from her skirt to allow them to touch her back. She shivered a bit at his touch and reached for the buttons on his shirt. Once half of the buttons were undone, her hands sought his own skin. He winced a moment as her fingertips grazed his scar. This was it, he thought, she would be horrified and halt all advances, turn around and leave. At his obvious wince, Maka stopped and looked into his eyes. She placed a hand over his heart, over his scar. "I'm so glad you are alive…" she whispered before meeting his lips once more and letting her hands continue to roam.

Soul had originally intended for them to go see the fireworks, but somehow, he was more than fine with the change of plan.

...

_July 5, 1945_

A finger of sunlight traced her face, stirring her from her slumber. Maka sat up in the bed to find Soul still asleep, naked back turned toward her. She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair, debating whether or not to let him doze. The ache to have conversation with him won the argument and prompted her to gently shake him awake. "Soul, wake up…" she whispered in his ear.

His red eyes snapped open, blazing with fear. In one smooth motion, he lept up and threw her back down on the bed. Fingers laced around her throat, he pushed down against her; she sputtered and gasped for air underneath him. Maka clawed at his arms and thrashed her legs in an attempt to get him to let go. His eyes were wild, as if he were an animal, his intense glare shaking her to the core. She managed to croak out his name.

Suddenly, it was as if the haze lifted and whatever nightmare he was reliving dissipated. Guilt and sadness replaced the terror and anger in his eyes as he loosened his grip on her neck. He stared at his shaking hands as Maka clambered out from under him. Her words in London echoed in his mind: "Your hands weren't made for killing…"

Curled up in a corner of the bed, she watched him recollect his thoughts. As he dropped his arms back to his sides, she flinched, sinking further into the corner. "It's Soul, he won't hurt you… It's Soul, he won't hurt you…" she chanted, hugging her knees closer to her and watching his every movement like a hawk.

Soul stared, mouth agape. Realization washed over him. They reminded each other of the war. No matter how much they wanted to forget, they could not so long as they were together. They had been each other's strength through all the pain the war had caused. Once a great and powerful connection, but now a horrible reminder. And when the night terrors came, they were the fear within the nightmare they hated and not the comfort within the dreams they sought.

A lump formed in his throat. He had to say it. He had to do anything to protect her. Because he had been unable to when she needed him most. "I… dunno if this will work…" he managed to get out.

Maka's chant stopped, her eyes glued to his. "Th-That isn't true. You can't mean that. Not after all we've been through…" Knees still clutched to her chest, she rubbed her arms and thought hard about his words, eyes flickering around the room. "I know we're still healing. But who could understand what we're going through better than ourselves? We've helped each other for so long, from the moment you arrived in London. Remember last night? You told me to stay. You were so certain we could work, but now you aren't so sure?" She looked back up to him, face stern and serious, as she finally uncurled herself. "It is all in your head. We are far better together than apart. Wouldn't you agree…?" Her stern look melted into a warm smile and she reached to place a hand on his own, thumb rubbing his knuckles.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, shaking his head at her but not removing his hand from her touch. "I could have killed you, Maka! How am I supposed to keep control of this so I don't hurt you?"

She shifted on the bed, her knees touching his, and took both his hands in hers. "Look at me. What are four things you hear? Three things you feel? Two things you smell? One thing you taste? Tell me what they are. Take all the time you need, but just look at me."

Soul stared into her bright green eyes, gnawing on his lower lip. "Breathing… birds, the neighbor girl singing, someone's radio…" He rubbed her knuckles in the same way she had. "Your hands are soft. Your knee is not." She giggled a little and moved the offending knee. "My heart is racing. I smell… some of you," he continued, blushing as he remembered the last night's activities. "And a little bit of me. And I… I taste…"

Maka leaned in slowly, pecking him softly on the lips. "Me again?" He nodded, still blushing. "Does this help?" Hesitantly, he nodded again. "Do this when you feel an attack coming. Think about where you are, not where you've been. Focus on the here and now. Look to me, I'm here and now."

He smiled sheepishly at her, nodding once more. Shifting to lay back down, he pulled her to him, placing her head and one of her hands on his chest. "Can we just… stay like this for a while?" he whispered as he played with a strand of her hair. "'M not ready to get out of bed yet…"

Laughing into his chest, she answered by hugging him tight. "I was right, wasn't I?

"It's all in your head."


	6. A New Dawn

"_The whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love." ~ __Kristina McMorris_

_July 10, 1945_

Soul rolled over, wrapping his arm around the pillow next to him. Even through his blurred vision, he realized that the soft down was not Maka. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands. A folded note on his bedside table caught his attention. That same neat cursive told him that t she had gone to town to explore and pick up some groceries. Sighing, he scratched the back of his head. She was his guest and she was restocking his fridge? He owed her something when she returned, but for the moment he decided a few extra minutes of sleep would be fine.

Even with her there, even with the tips she had given him to cope with his PTSD, he still had trouble falling and staying asleep. Maka did not seem to have the same problem. When asked, she simply said that she felt safe in his arms - that, when she was with him, the troubles of the world were far behind her He wished that he could say the same. But for the time being, he was comfortable and tired enough to roll over again and fade in and out of consciousness.

He was pulled from the little bit of sleep he'd been able to get by noises in the kitchen. Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed and down the hall to find Maka carefully putting away a sack of groceries. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling into the base of her neck The scent of her shampoo filled his nose, and he had not realized how much he had missed it. "Didn't have to do that…" he grumbled sleepily into her hair.

"It didn't seem right for me to stay with you and not help out a bit," she replied as she laid her hands on his arms around her, leaning further into his touch. "Besides, I wanted to see the place you grew up. I find it fascinating."

One arm still around her waist, he grabbed a jar and reached to place it in the cupboard, pulling her with him. She giggled. How strange it was to have everything change for him so soon, yet still be the most "normal" he'd felt since returning from the war. He still worried about the repercussions, how they still affected him and his relationships , but Soul could not help but agree with her. They were far better together than apart. He was not as afraid of falling as before.

He knew she would be there to catch him.

…

July 28, 1945

Wes tapped his foot impatiently, staring at the apartment door. He had already knocked a few times and was not happy with the lack of response. He sighed. Despite still living in the same city, Soul had neglected to visit, call, even write to his family. Wes never would have guessed that a simple letter would change their lives so easily and so quickly. But with prior Soul's behavior, the older brother was concerned about him. He pounded on the door once more only to be answered with a gruff "I'm coming!".

Soul threw open the door, dark circles under his eyes and hair messy as if he had not slept well recently, if at all. "Wes? What are you here for?"

The older man pushed past him and into the apartment. "What? I can't come visit my little brother from time to time?" he answered with a big grin. "To be honest, I've been a bit worried. Have you even left the apartment? It doesn't really smell like it…"

Soul watched his brother take a look around the apartment, his expression disapproving, before taking a seat in the living room. The younger brother followed suit, sitting across the coffee table so he could face him. "Of course I've left the apartment. I gotta eat, right?"

"We went to see a film, remember?" Maka's voice called from the kitchen as she appeared in the living room as well.

He snapped his fingers as he recalled the outing. "Right! Went to see 'Anchors Aweigh' downtown. The ticket guy gave a weird look for some reason. Still don't know what his problem was."

Wes raised an eyebrow. "So you went to the movies and got groceries? That's all?"

Soul's eyes flickered over to Maka as she continued, "We went to the beach just the other night."

"Right, the sunset was really nice reflecting off the harbor," the younger man agreed.

Wes glanced over at Maka for a moment, then wordlessly returned his gaze to Soul. "Even so, why haven't you talked to anyone at home? Father has been dying to play a duet with you, but you left so soon, he never had th-"

"Look, I realize you're my brother and you worry. But I'm _fine. _Never better, actually. I need to live my own life, kay?"

The older Evans stared at his hands in his lap. "Care to humor me for some lunch tomorrow?"

"We were going out to lunch tomorrow," Maka replied.

"Sorry, already have plans," Soul answered, getting out of his seat. "I actually have plans today too, so it might be best if you head home now." He offered his hand to him. "It was nice seeing you, Wes."

Wes sighed and stood up, clasping his brother's hand. "It was nice seeing you, too. At least give us a call sometime? We really miss you."

Soul nodded. "Will do." He saw Wes out the door and locked it behind him. Once he was certain his brother was gone, he sighed and took his seat once more. "What was his deal?" he asked her, scratching the back of his head. "Wouldn't speak a word to you."

"He must know that I'm Japanese. Perhaps he feels the same way you felt?" she offered as she sat down next to him. Maka placed a hand on his knee. "He'll come around, I'm sure. It took you some time, remember?"

"Yeah… again, sorry…"

She smiled and punched him in the shoulder.

"The hell was that for?" he shouted, rubbing his now sore arm.

"Now we're even."

…

_August 16, 1945_

A faint knock woke him from one of the best night's sleep he had had in ages. A woman's voice announced that she was entering the room, and the bedroom door opened. Soul scrambled to cover himself with the comforter as his mother walked in, eyes weary and saddened. He must have forgotten to lock the door the previous night. "Mother! What are you doing here?" He reached for Maka to attempt to wake her up.

"I hadn't heard from you in so long, I was getting worried." She padded across the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"No, don't! You'll wake her!" he hissed.

His mother shifted the comforter to uncover an empty half of the bed. "No one is here, Soul."

He stared in horror at the empty space. She had been there - Maka had been there just the night before. Why would she leave him alone in the middle of the night? "You don't understand," he replied with a wild smile, "she's probably hiding! Or went to the restroom, or-"

His mother set a hand on his knee, silencing him. "You think Maka was here, don't you?" His eyes fixated on her hand, and he refused to respond, afraid of what she had to say. "Oh, honey, I was afraid of this. The letter you received… we think someone was pulling your leg. This 'Maka' of yours doesn't exist."

Terror flickered in his eyes. Why would his mother say such a thing to him? Was it some sort of sick joke to her? Maka had been there, right in his arms just a few short hours before. Were they both in on the joke? Soul smacked his mother's hand away from him. "Don't you fucking lie to me! I know she's real, and she was really here! Maka! Come out, it's okay!" He swallowed hard and watched the open doorway. "_Please… please don't let her be right…" _he pleaded silently.

"Soul, please, don't do this to yourself!" His mother moved to block his view. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. "Your doctor from London talked to your father and I about this. Doctor Stein said that you would tell your nurse stories about Maka. But he did some investigating, and there are no records of a Maka on the base. He said she had been your coping mechanism after being shot down… But I can't let you keep living this lie!" She grabbed him by the shoulder, tears slowly creeping down her face. "That stupid letter… You would have stayed with me and your father where you would be safe if only someone hadn't sent that stupid letter! I don't want to see you get hurt because of this fantasy you're living! Please, come home!"

His eyes darted around the room as he tried to make sense of his mother's words. The room spun, making it difficult to pin down any facts he could come up with about Maka. "She said she worked for the SOE… She was a like a spy or something! Of course some old doctor couldn't find her reco-!"

"Enough! Please!" She slapped him across the face, her last resort to bring him to his senses. As he sat there, eyes wide and cheek stinging, she continued through sobs, "I can't sit by and let you keep up this delusion! You're coming home, and that is that!" She got to her feet and stood in the doorway. Taking a deep breath and wiping her face, she turned to him and said as calmly as she could muster, "I'll let you get ready. I'll be waiting outside in the car for you." With that, she left, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Soul fisted the bedsheets in his hands. Why was this happening to him? Had he not gone through enough? And now the woman who had helped him through everything, the war, the aftermath, all of it, was just… gone. Vanished. Never existed in the first place, if his mother was correct.

Maybe Maka had been right. Maybe it was all in his head.

…

_September 22, 1945_

"Creaking. Sniffling. Whispering. Some kid crying."

Soul gripped the arm of his seat tightly. Heart racing and head spinning, he tried to ground himself the way Maka had taught him. At least, whoever or whatever he had thought was Maka.

"Wood. Warmth. Anxiety."

He thought about it often. It kept him up at night. How had he managed to convince himself that _she _was really there? They had gone out on dates, _she _had gotten him groceries, they had spent time in public together! How could _she _not have been real the entire time? He realized how incredibly insane he must have looked, buying two tickets at the theater and having full on conversations with no one out in public. He still wasn't sure how the groceries _she _had gotten for him at one time got there if he had not gotten them. He didn't want to think too hard about how their romantic nights had really gone.

"Soup. Perfume."

Getting back to reality had been harder than he had imagined. He continued to see _her _occasionally even after his mother had brought him home. His imagination was simply too good as he still felt terrible whenever _she _was upset when he ignored _her_. He refused to talk to _her_, acknowledge that he could see _her_. After all, _she _wasn't real. It was a hard fact to accept, and he had to keep telling himself that.

And even though his family could not see _her_, they knew when Soul was seeing _her_. Their faces would twist up in sadness, sympathy, maybe even frustration. He simply couldn't handle them anymore. Not the looks, not the constant checking in on him, not anything.

"Blood."

He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and opened his eyes for the first time in a long time. He hadn't even noticed he had been gnawing at his lip as he thought over his situation. Outside the window, the sun began to set. It was strange to him to no longer see the trees of Connecticut, the scenery now changed to desert and cacti whizzing by. He lurched forward as the train slowed down.

They had finally reached his destination: Nevada.

As he stepped off the train, life packed in a suitcase in his hands, he took a deep breath. This would be his new beginning. He could forget his old life, forget about ever being in the war, forget about her. There was no going back.

"Please don't go…" Maka whispered from the open train car behind him.

He raised his eyes to the sun slowly sinking below the horizon. "You aren't real," he murmured before walking away into his new life. And with that, she vanished from the car door.

...

Wes slumped into an uncomfortable chair and sighed as he glanced around the airport. He watched the crowds of people go by, men and women greeting each other, parents and their children going separate ways, terrified and excited people waiting for their flight. He laid his violin case over his knees. It was all he needed to carry on the plane. There was no way he would leave his precious instrument with the rest of his luggage.

If he was being honest, the violinist was nervous. The concert he was flying to New York for would be his very first time performing for such a large audience. He didn't want to let anyone down. Playing with one of the latches on his case, he thought about the music he had selected. Would they like it? Would they like him?

But his real concerns were with his brother. Not a single word as to where Soul had gone. Wherever he was, the older brother was sure he could handle it. But it didn't stop the worrying.

Wes only realized someone had sat down next to him when he accidentally bumped her elbow. He looked over to her to apologize. "Sorry about that, ma'am."

"It's nothing to worry about," she replied, one hand grasping tightly onto the purse in her lap, the other moving to readjust one of the victory rolls in her blonde hair. "Are you a musician?"

He stopped fidgeting with the latch on his case, noting her foreign accent. "Yes, I'm actually waiting for my flight out to my concert."

"That's exciting! You must be quite good then!" She smiled warmly at him.

"I would hope so!" he chuckled. "Do you play?"

"Me? Heavens, no. I've been meaning to learn piano, though. At least the basics. A… friend of mine is a pianist."

"Is that so? Are these piano lessons why you're here in the States? I couldn't help but notice your accent."

Her eyes dropped to her purse. "Not exactly. I've been meaning to see him for some time… I've just been… so afraid to see him again. The last time we saw each other, we left on bad terms. I'd meant to come much sooner, but..."

Wes placed a comforting hand on her arm. "If he values your friendship at all, he'll be happy to see you again, I'm sure of it."

She shot him a thankful look, though before either could speak, a voice rang over the intercom system. "This is the final boarding call for flight 89B to New York City. Please proceed to gate four immediately. Final checks are being completed and -"

The violinist jumped to his feet and turned to the woman. "Sorry, but that would be my flight. I've got to get going, but it was wonderful talking with you." He held out a hand to her.

She took it and shook it slightly. "It was very nice meeting you, Mr…"

"Wes Evans," he replied. "And you are…?"

She let go of his hand and waved a goodbye at him. "Maka Albarn. Don't miss your flight now."


	7. Epilogue: Homecoming

**With so many requests for an epilogue, I just had to write more after the ending. I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>"Life always offers us a second chance. It's called tomorrow. So don't give up against adverse circumstances and keep fighting." ~ Anurag Prakash Ray<em>

_November 22, 2003_

_"Happy Birthday, dear Grandpa~! Happy Birthday to you~!"_

The living room erupted into a chorus of cheers as Soul blew out the candles on his cake. He sighed and shakily made it to his chair across the room as the rest of his family huddled around the cake, eager to grab a slice. He wasn't in the mood for celebrating, especially given the timeline of it all.

Mary crouched down next to him, staring up into his eyes. "Did you want a slice, Dad?" He shook his head, turning away from her slightly. "You know… Mom would have wanted you to enjoy your birthday, not be sad about her." She watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the arms of his chair. "Alright, have it your way," she sighed. "If you change your mind, you'll have to sweet talk one of the boys into getting you a slice." With that, she got up to join the rest of the party.

He watched her sadly for a moment before letting his gaze wander to the wall. Photos covered the wall, a photo of him and his wife, Helen, of Mary with her husband and two sons, and finally an old photo from his time served in the military. Soul hated to see it there. He had managed to keep any photographic evidence of his service from Helen up until their wedding. His mother had decided that it would make a good present, and Helen loved it. She was the one to insist it hang proudly in their living room. Soul never had the heart to take it down.

There were many things he never had the heart to do when Helen was still alive. Like admitting that their daughter was given the fake name of his first love. His wife had let him choose their daughter's name, and the first to fall from his lips was "Mary". To that day, he never understood why it was his first response.

Maka had been the main reason he didn't like talking about the war. He was afraid to tell his family about the amazing woman he had loved and hurt, imagined to be real, and eventually abandoned in the desert. They would judge him. Or worse, think we was insane.

Rubbing his temples slowly, he had to wonder why. Why now? Why would he think back to Maka now of all times? So soon after his wife's death? Maybe he was insane, thinking about a woman an ocean and 60 years away. He should have been focused on his family there, standing in his kitchen, celebrating his eighty years on Earth.

But for the first time in years, Maka stood before him, wrinkle-free eyes watching him sadly as she waved a perfect, young hand in greeting.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing her away. He was doing better. _He was doing so much better. _So why did she have to appear now? A hand on his arm shook him from his thoughts, startling him. He looked into the wide, worried eyes of his youngest grandson.

"Are you sick, Grandpa?" the eight-year-old asked, gently patting his arm.

He looked over to where Maka stood only to find an empty corner. Shaking his head, he smiled at him. "Grandpa's fine. Just thinking."

"About what?"

Pausing a moment, he tried to figure out the best words to say. "An old friend."

"Where is he now?"

Soul chuckled. "_She_ is somewhere very far away. Probably doing some amazing things. She always was, I just didn't know it at the time."

"You miss her, huh?"

"...Yes."

The young boy reached up to hug him. "I bet she misses you, too." Soul returned the hug, blinking tears from his eyes.

Soon enough, it was time for the party to end. Everyone took turns wishing the Birthday Boy one last "Happy Birthday" with a hug before making their way to the door. Mary was last, giving him an extra long hug. "I love you so much, Dad," she whispered before placing a kiss on his cheek.

"I love you, too." he returned with a genuine smile.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

He glanced at the doorway as his guests chatted happily on their way outside. "Yeah, I'll be fine." Mary didn't seem convinced, but accepted his words and headed to the door as well. Soul leaned back in his seat and sighed. Quiet at last.

Or so he thought. Hearing voices outside, he sat up quickly in his chair. The front door opened revealing Mary leading an elderly woman into his home. "Dad, she said you know her, but… I've never met her before. She insisted she see you, so…"

Of course he knew her. Her hair was now the same silvery colors his was, and wrinkles now covered her skin, but Soul would recognize her anywhere.

"I finally made it, Soul," she said, accent sweet like the English countryside.

Getting to his feet, he made his way over to her, eyes flickering between Maka and Mary, making sure that the old woman was real, that his daughter could see her plain as day as well. His hands would not stop trembling as he reached for her arms, gently placing them on her shoulders. "You did… You're here," he whispered, pulling her in for a hug.

Mary took a step back, confusion written all over her face. "Is she an old friend?"

The two broke apart, Soul nodding to his daughter. "She was my-" The words "first love" caught in his throat, not ready to talk about such things as his thoughts drifted back to his late-wife. "... first friend when I was in Europe."

"Do you need me to stay a little longer?" Mary asked.

"No, we'll be fine. Thanks again for the party."

With one more glance towards Maka, she nodded, said her goodbyes once more, and left.

Taking Maka's hands in his, Soul closed his eyes tightly. When she asked what he was doing, he answered, "Making sure you're really here." He opened his eyes slowly, and sure enough, she still remained, hands gently clasped in his. He smiled with relief. "You're a little late."

She laughed. "I went to see you, but I think you gave me the wrong address in England." She didn't miss his flinch. "Your parents… they didn't know what to tell me when I showed up on your step. They said you went out and never came back."

His hands dropped to his sides. "Sorry… I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't me when I was in Connecticut."

She hummed in understanding and slowly walked around the living room, taking great interest in the wall of photos. He saw a flicker of what he thought was jealousy cross her face. "She's very pretty," she said, motioning to a photo of Helen. "The woman who let me in must be your daughter then?"

"Yes."

One arm gently rubbing the other, she continued, "I'm glad it was easy. For you to move on."

"It wasn't." She turned to look at him. "You have no idea how much I missed you. How badly I needed you here," Soul said, dropping his gaze to the floor. "When I got your letter, I couldn't wait to see you. To be honest… I thought you'd shown up. But you know that isn't true…" He slumped into his chair once more, bangs hiding his face. The sound of her taking a seat as well made him look up.

Maka sat in Helen's rocking chair.

Guilt made his stomach uneasy. He really had loved, no, continued to love, Helen. So to have another woman sit where she had so soon… "Could you sit somewhere else? Please?" he asked tiredly. Without a word, she moved to the couch. She understood.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, hands fidgeting in her lap. "I really meant to come sooner, but with the way we'd left…" Tears began to run down her cheeks, and she immediately moved to wipe them away. "I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me. I was afraid you'd still hate me…"

He moved to sit next to her on the couch, arm wrapping around her fragile frame and tucking her head under his chin. "Never hated you. I wanted to see you so bad." She pulled away and looked up into his eyes, slowly leaning in. But he pulled away. "My wife died earlier this week. I'm not… ready to move on yet."

A mix of hurt and embarrassment flashed in her eyes as she shied away from him. "Sorry…" She felt his free hand lay on top of hers. A smile crept onto her face as she shook her head slightly. "So," she said, turning back to him, "tell me about your family. Tell me everything about when you came back to the States."

And he did. When he asked her to tell him about going back to London and finally coming to the States herself, she obliged as well. They stayed up late, telling stories, laughing, and crying together until they fell asleep together on the couch. They both slept soundly, ready to see what tomorrow held for the two of them.


End file.
